“Can’t recognize my son anymore,” Jeet declares, pulling up his chair to the card table, where his three male friends are already seated for their weekly game of rummy.

Though he’s in the same age group as his fellow transplants from the native land, their children are several years older than Jeet’s son, his only child. Jeet isn’t his full name, but when he was working in retail, as a new immigrant, it became a convenient abbreviation—and much later, when he finally found success as a purveyor of environment-friendly reusable bags, the name seemed like an inspired choice. His business is called Jeet’s Jute Bags.

“Son?” the accountant says, looking up, with his steaming, fragrant cup of dark brown tea still inches from his lips. “What about country?”

“That, too!” Chortling, Jeet picks up his pile of freshly dealt cards. “But which one—the old country or the new country?”

“Both, of course,” the accountant says, putting the cup down after slurping his tea. “Speaking of the old country, I was there recently, as you all know. Unbelievable . . . the changes.”

The other two players, intently studying their pink cards, which look like dainty hand fans, murmur in agreement without raising their heads, as if no further explanation is needed.

“You said son,” the accountant points out, watching as the teacher begins the game. “What happened? A tattoo . . . or did he shave his head?”

There are a few chuckles, but Jeet is not smiling. “No, he thinks I’m not his real father.”

“What!” the teacher says, staring. “Does he think he was adopted? What made him say that?”

“His attitude,” Jeet says. “He thinks I’m too old to be his father.”

“Did something trigger this outburst?” asks the pharmacist, who usually speaks the least.

Before Jeet can answer, there’s a chime as the front door is opened. “Let me give Anita a hand,” he says, rising. “She went grocery shopping. I’ll be right back.”

The others, putting their cards face down, drink their tea in companionable silence until Jeet and his wife, holding a few bags, enter the room on their way to the kitchen.

After cordial greetings are exchanged, Anita says, “Don’t finish your tea . . . or maybe you can have more. There’s a plum cake to go with it.”

At first there are polite refusals, but they end up accepting more tea from Jeet and some cake from Anita, who then heads to the canary yellow sofa with her plate and cup.

“So where’s your son?” the accountant asks, spearing his slice with a fork. “Isn’t he back from school?”

“Oh, his friend’s mother picked him up,” Anita responds. “They’re going to—”

“See, this is what I mean.” Jeet, back at the table, puts his cup down with a loud clink. “Disobeying me. He said, ‘Why can’t you be like other dads?’ Can you believe that?”

“Let it go,” Anita says sharply. “He’s a teenager. What’s done is done.”

The other men, looking embarrassed, keep their eyes focused on the plates. They’re reluctant to be drawn into what appears to be a spousal quarrel involving the boy. As parents of kids who are in college or already working, they no longer have the same degree of involvement in their lives as Jeet and Anita. Their concerns are different, and they’re more likely to talk about future grandkids, retirement plans, and the jobs and partners their children have.

After finishing their card game, without much chit chat, the three men bid hasty goodbyes and depart at the same time. Jeet clears the table, puts all the cups and plates in the dishwasher, and joins Anita on the sofa, where she’s looking through a stack of mail.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” she says, without looking at him. “He’s resentful . . . because he doesn’t understand why you won’t let him do what he wants to do. They don’t understand either, and they’re your best friends. Looks strange. You should explain.”

“What’s there to explain? It happened a long time ago. No point in talking about it. None of them will understand. What’s strange is this attraction to the camp. Is this what we really want him to do? Make him hold a—”

“Jeet, do we need to go over this again? He wanted to join his best friend for what they think is a fun experience. As for the camp, they’re all teens. It’s well run, very safe, and it’s just for the weekend. You know that I already looked into it. Instead of having the same discussion again, why don’t we watch the news? It’s about to start.”

“Sure,” Jeet says, picking up the remote control from the coffee table.

*

For a couple of years as a new immigrant, Jeet had a kept a little spiral notebook in which he jotted down occasional thoughts. “Rules of Engagement,” he’d written on the first page in bold letters. While the ruled notebook had some observations of life around him, what he mostly recorded were reminders and rules he should keep in mind, especially as a sales associate in the department where he was then working.

“Smile at customers,” read one entry. “Thank them after the transaction and say that you hope to see them again.”

“No matter where you are, try not to look too serious,” read another entry. “Don’t be overly formal. And keep your antennae up.”

Yet another entry, borrowed from an unnamed book, read: “We instinctively trust people in our group, until they break the trust. And we instinctively distrust people outside our group, until they earn the trust. So learning to earn trust is important.”

How well did he follow these rules and exhortations? There was something earnest, aspirational and, yes, quixotic about this notebook—which seemed to have been a kind of comfort journal, more than anything else, during these early years of uncertainty. And then Jeet lost the notebook, abruptly ending a chapter that he seldom looked back on or talked about.

Only Anita—whom he married some years later—knew what happened on his last day at the department store, the day he lost his notebook. Jeet was working in the men’s section, where his job involved helping customers pick readymade suits, matching ties, dressy or casual shirts and pants. He also operated the cash register, cleaned up the displays, and put up sale signs. Usually, two other associates worked with him, but that day, there was only one other employee, a young woman, on the sales floor during his shift.

Skipping his usual hour-long lunch break, he ate his sandwich in the back room and returned to work. When the young woman—with whom he got along well, often sharing jokes with her—took her short break, she asked if he wanted anything. Jeet asked if she was going to be near the coffee shop in the adjoining mall. She wasn’t—but then, insisting that it didn’t inconvenience her, she offered to bring a cup of his customary dark roast coffee. 

About twenty minutes later, by his estimate, the intercom crackled to life. A loud voice, speaking urgently, announced that an active shooter was in the mall. As directed, Jeet rushed into the back room along with the customers in his section. For added protection, after bolting the door, he pushed a couple of heavy boxes against it with some help. Everything became blurry—and later, Jeet’s recollection of that fateful day had gaps.

An argument had broken out in the mall, he was told, and two people died instantly when somebody fired a handgun. One victim, killed by a stray bullet, was carrying a cup of coffee, which spilled and soiled her clothes as she slumped to the floor. The perpetrator was in the parking lot, trying to flee in his car, when the swat team, arriving just minutes after the incident, shot him. He became the third casualty that day.

Jeet never went back to the department store, or even the mall. His boss was understanding, and she accepted his immediate resignation over the phone. Jeet’s satchel and jacket were mailed to his apartment, and only later did he realize that his notebook, which he’d pulled out during his shift, was missing. Jeet went to the young woman’s funeral, but he couldn’t summon the courage to tell anybody—except, later, his wife—about that cup of coffee.

A year later, after hearing that the young woman’s parents had set up a fund to help victims of gun violence, he made a contribution anonymously. It was a fairly large one, at least for him. The parents found out, somehow, and called to thank him. Again, Jeet failed to say anything about the cup of coffee—and this guilty feeling, he knew, would never disappear. 

*

It’s still early morning when Jeet, following a restless night, picks up his cup of coffee and leaves the house in his car. Anita is still sleeping. The blotchy crimson light in the sky looks like casual dabs of paint on a vast blue canvas. After a drive that takes almost three hours along twisting mountain roads, Jeet stops at the entrance of a sprawling and secluded campground. It’s quiet, and the mist is quickly receding now that the sun is out, though it doesn’t feel warm when he steps out of the car. The gate is down, but there’s nobody in the security booth to open it or answer a question. Walking up, Jeet presses the call button.

“Hello, can I help you?” a male voice responds, sounding surprised.

“Yes, please. Can you let me in? My son is at the camp. I need to see him.”

There’s a pause. “Sorry, sir, we’re not open to visitors at this time. You—”

“I’m not a visitor,” Jeet says, his voice rising. “I’m a parent.”

“I understand, sir, but the camp hasn’t ended. You can pick him up anytime after 1 p.m. tomorrow.”

“No, no, you don’t understand! I have to pick him today . . . now.”

“Is it an emergency, sir? I’ll need your name and—”

Rat-a-tat-tat . . . rat-a-tat-tat . . . rat-a-tat-tat . . .

“What’s that?” Jeet says in alarm. “What’s happening?”

“Calm down, sir. There’s a practice session going on at the range.”

“Calm down? I’m not calming down . . . I’m coming in, gate or no gate!”

Returning to his car, Jeet gets in and slams the door before pressing the accelerator. He doesn’t stop even when a uniformed man, shouting and waving his arms frantically, runs towards the gate.